No One's Watching
by crearealidad
Summary: But this is where the movies are just crap. They don't come home to empty apartments where there's no victory in the death of a killer. There are just dead bodies and one of them is Kate. Set post "Kill Ari (Part I II)"


Author's Note: Set post "Kill Ari (Part I + II)" and then becomes AU where after everything is over, Ziva goes back to Israel, never to return, but first, she follows Tony home.

Based on the prompt from comment_fic on LJ: Any Fandom, Any Pairing, Horrified by the one thing that makes everything better but too broken down to reject it.

* * *

If this was a movie, walking into his apartment would not feel quite so pointless. There should be rising music, he thinks, that's laced with something sorrowful, but building to something more hopeful because the killer is dead. She's been buried and he should be moving on with his life, looking forward to a new day, a new start, but with a soft, sad place in his heart for the woman he might have loved.

But this is where the movies are just crap. They don't come home to empty apartments where there's no victory in the death of a killer. There are just dead bodies and one of them is Kate.

Guilt is trying to creep in from every corner so he switches on all the lights and wishes that he'd chosen some color other than white. Black suits him. Abby would approve. Or maybe a deep sapphire blue with silver. Kate would like that.

He pours himself a drink from his bar; scotch, neat, and just crashes down on the couch in the hopes that maybe he might have enough liquor to avoid dreaming about her tonight. It's bad enough that he feels like a jerk for telling her ghost about his sexual fantasies. It wasn't really her, or even her ghost, but it still feels wrong because she'd probably slap him for it.

Closing his eyes, he swallows down the scotch too quickly.

"You trying to get drunk, Tony?"

His eyes pop open at the question, eyes scanning his apartment because he knows he's alone. He knows that's not Kate but it sure as hell sounds like her and it bothers him that he thinks he can smell that spicy vanilla stuff she's been wearing. She's never been here and she isn't here now.

It sure sounded like Kate, but it's Ziva. And that's almost worse than hallucinating his dead partner.

"How did you get in here?" he grouses, watching the Israeli slide over to the other end of his couch with his bottle of scotch in hand.

She just purses her lips and shrugs her thin shoulders. "You're not terribly observant," she snarks, popping the stopper out of the decanter and giving it a sniff, raising an eyebrow in his direction. "Most people drown their sorrows in something cheaper," she remarks, reaching over and taking his glass from his hand and fills it to the brim before passing it back.

The glass decanter lands on the coffee table sort of between them and she meets his eye, daring him to kick her out.

"I would tell you to get out but I'm sort of out of 'give a shit' right now," he points out, sucking down a few more sips of scotch and watching her lean down to unbuckle her knee high boots like she belongs on his couch. With the boots off, she pulls a knife from somewhere around her waistband, then a gun, then what looks like an overstuffed pocketbook, plunking each one down on the coffee table before propping her feet up beside them. It's only then that he notices her backpack, sitting at the other end of the coffee table, zipped up tight and seriously, how the hell did he not hear her come in?

She reclines next to him, snatching up the bottle from the table, uncorking it once more but this time, she brings it to her lips. Before taking a quick swig, she turns her eyes to him for a moment as if to say, "I'm gonna drink this. You gonna stop me?" He doesn't really care and so they both drink in silence.

"So, Ziva David. Care to tell me why you followed me home and broke into my apartment?" he asks finally when they've been sitting there long enough that he's feeling just slightly tipsy; he's too warm to be sober.

Only her eyes move, swinging towards him for a moment before she replies, "I needed a drink. You seemed mostly like to have the good stuff."

He huffs what might be a laugh, not believing it for a second, but he doubts he'll get more out of her. If this were a movie, they'd drink the whole bottle and she'd confess after they're both so drunk that they can scarcely peel themselves off the couch. He, in turn, would tell her about Kate, heal his wounds by telling her about Kate's smiles and her jokes and the way she would tease him. He'd smile and she'd assuage some of her guilt and they'd both pass out and wake up in a better world.

But he hates the sight of her sitting on his couch. She looks like him - like Ari - in all the ways that count right now. If it weren't for the deadly weapons laid out in front of her, he might kick her out, but he isn't up for a fight and she'd probably break his scotch bottle over his head.

Pointless.

She takes a long swallow from the decanter then lifts it his way. "More?"

Glancing down at his glass, he's sees it's closer to empty than full and lifts it up for her to fill.

"Should we drink to something?" she asks him. "Kate, perhaps?"

He glares at her then, but nods, lifts his glass then gulps down as much as he can bear at once. Shifting, he mirrors her position, propping his feet on the coffee table, knocking her gun and pocketbook to the floor. She doesn't protest, just kicks them more fully under the table, then leans forward to move the gun down beside them.

Things start to shift then and he doesn't really know why. He still hates her. Hates her family and everything that brought her here but once his glass of scotch is empty, she doesn't offer him a refill. Just silently passes the bottle to him.

"You do realize that getting sucker-faced isn't going to fix things, right, Tony?" she asks, dead serious, her eyes trying to level with his but he's avoiding.

"Sucker-faced?" His face twists and he turns to look at her. "I think you mean shit-faced. Drunk. Wasted. Completely fucked up. And yeah, I know," he acknowledges, but takes yet another drink anyway.

She's tucked so tightly into his couch that he can't quite believe how small she is. Her arms are wrapped across her chest as if she's trying to fold her body in on itself, fingers curling around her biceps with a death grip and she's slouched down so low that the top of her head barely rises above the back of the couch. All that ferocious strength seems gone and he lets himself look as she stares vacantly towards the piano in the corner of his living room.

It feels dangerous, sitting here, half-drunk and staring down her tank top but her Star of David is twinkling like a sparkling bauble and he can't look away. It's nestled between her clavicles against soft skin and she indeed smells like something vanilla and spicy and he really hates that it reminds him of Kate. Even her dark hair, though he knows Kate would never allow her hair to frizz and curl in the kind unkempt mane that the Israeli beside him seems to favor.

Without breaking her gaze on the piano, Ziva's voice suddenly jolts him out of his stupor, "Stop staring at my breasts, Tony."

Swallowing roughly, he settles back against the couch, making sure to square his shoulders and set his gaze purposefully forward. "I don't know what you're talking about, Zi-UGH." The painful thrust of her fist against his stomach is a shock and he jerks upright, nearly dropping his glass as he doubles over.

She's still stubbornly eyeing the piano but withdraws her hand, switches the decanter to that hand, and passes it his way.

He accepts it with a low groan and takes a sip before asking, "Was that really necessary?"

"I thought so," she remarks, taking the bottle back before he can take another drink.

"You're the one helping me get drunk. Sitting on my couch wearing a top low enough that I can get a nice view. One might say that's a tad bit misleading. And hardly fair to treat me like some sort of random creepy perv. After all," he points out, snatching the bottle from her hand. "You're the one who broke in here and insisted on sharing my good scotch."

That gets her attention finally and she looks at him, eyebrow arching up in curiosity. "I didn't hear you protesting."

"Like you said, I'm not all that observant," he retorts, swigging at the scotch with a purposeful gaze at her breasts. They're decent, round, lifted, though he wonders if perhaps she's not wearing a bra under that tank top she's got on. He's trying to annoy her more than being interested, but she stubbornly uncrosses her arms and gives a little squirm of her hips, sitting up a bit straighter.

"If you think you're going to bother me by oggling, you've not learned much in these past few days."

Shrugging, he sets the bottle on the table. He's really too drunk now for this and he can't quite get a hold of a good retort. Her perfume is tickling his nose again and he really wishes he'd sent her away to begin with but at this point, he'll have to settle for pissing her off. Reaching out with one unsteady hand, he snags his finger along the neckline of her top, plucking just once. "I think..." he starts, then pauses, a bit startled at just how slurred he sounds. "I think you like it."

That earns him a huff as she swats his hand away.

Then she moves. Faster than she has a right to because he's pretty sure she's had more of his scotch than he has. Her hands are on his shoulders and she's up on her knees and shoving him down on the couch until she's literally on top of him. It sends his head swimming and that smell is completely overwhelming him.

Her lips twist with a strange kind of glee as he tries to gather his thoughts, but she screws it all up with this little thrust of her hips, bringing the firm line of her fly against the erection he didn't know he had, and all he can do is moan. "Fuck..."

She laughs, gives her hips another firm thrust and then tilts her head down to drag her tongue from the base of his throat, up along his pulse to the base of his jaw. It's hotter than anything he's done in forever and he can feel his dick responding eagerly to her attack. "I think you have that one backwards, Agent DiNozzo," she hums against his throat like some sort of sadistic sex kitten and his hands fumble like a teenage boy to try to find her hips.

"You're sick, you know," he complains even as his fingers find the hem of her shirt, pushing it up so that he can dig into the soft skin of her back. "Where the hell did you get Kate's perfume? I mean seriously, did you think I'd get off on pretending you're a dead woman?"

The words are bitter on his tongue but he thrusts against her, feeling her body slip so that his thigh is pressed firmly along the crotch of her jeans.

"You really think I would intentionally try to impersonate your dead partner? No," she declares, one of her hands releasing his shoulder to take a vice grip on his chin, thrusting it up and back against the arm of the couch with a terrifying strength. Her touch on his skin feels like ice but it does nothing to dissuade the growing heat that's flooding him. "No, if we're going to do this, let me make this clear. You will not insert me into your mastrubatory fantasies of your partner and if you so much as mutter her name, you will regret it."

He swallows, looking up into her dark eyes, completely shocked to find them shining with what he would normally call tears. But he keeps blurring her face to something that's part her, part Ari, and just a little bit Kate, so he forces himself to look down at her lips, pink and soft unlike the rest of her. She's panting a bit, puffing swirls of scotch-scented breath across his face and it muffles that smell. It helps more than just a little and even though he still can't stop seeing her brother, without that familiar perfume, she's mostly just a warm, strong woman, grinding herself against his thigh so roughly that he's pretty sure he can feel her wetness soaking into his slacks.

"Trust me, Ziva David," he says pointedly, tilting his head up because she's arcing up just enough that he can suck his lips against the underside of her chin. "Kate never would have been this wet."

The sound she lets out sounds like squeak, but she hides it against his mouth, kissing him more with her teeth than her lips, tugging at him until he manages to push her shirt up high enough that she wants it off and wrenches herself free to sit fully astride his thigh.

From there, she peels off her shirt and to his surprise, she is wearing a bra, just not the padded, push-up kind and it's little more than triangles of fabric supporting her. He's staring until she dismounts from him and grabs the front of his shirt, hauling him upright. "Take this off," she insists with one more tug at the collar before stepping back and unhooking her bra before shoving down her jeans and her underwear in one quick sweeping motion.

He's not sure how much she's really thinking but she's naked now, from head to toe except for that gleaming little Star of David and he's supposed to think well enough with all this scotch in him to figure out how to unbutton his shirt? "You're..." he starts to mutter, wanting to tell her she's beautiful, but she clamps a hand over his mouth and shakes her head.

She does the rest for him, pushing and pulling his limbs and his torso until he's shirtless. Then she needs him to stand up so she can get rid of his pants too and he's still doesn't understand why she wants this from him, or why she's even here.

Once their clothing is gone, she takes him by the wrist and drags him towards the bedroom. He resists at first - his bed isn't really made for two - but she lets her fingers drag down to his palm and pinches the thin skin between his thumb and his forefinger until he lets out a yelp.

"You're insane," he hisses, but lets her take them into his bedroom. She tries to push him down onto the bed, but he fights for it this time and gets her on her back by weaving his fingers into her hair. Her scalp is sensitive and the move renders her motionless, giving him just enough leverage to take control.

He considers just driving into her right there - she seems ready and her hips are grinding up against him with a certainty that's hard to deny - but instead he slides his hands down, meeting her eyes once more as he slides two fingers inside. It surprises her and he strokes them deeper, watching hey eyelids lower as she turns her face from him.

"Can't you just fuck me?" she complains. The request is too quiet, too shy for the woman who'd just spent the last hour taunting him and it just makes it worse. Slipping his fingers out of her, he drags her wetness off his fingers along her inner thigh, then guides his dick to her entrance.

His feet are still on the ground and her legs come to wrap around behind his thighs and it helps that she's pretty well immobilized on her back. She writhes and bucks and whimpers, but her hands can do little more than drag along his back as he fucks her; not enough leverage to cause him any real pain because she's looks like a wild creature and he definitely knows she's dangerous.

There's no more talking. Her arms come up eventually to cling behind his neck, pulling herself up to meet his body and he refuses to let go of his grip on her hair. She digs her heels into the backs of his thighs, wanting more but never asking. Just demanding with bucking little kicks.

His thrusts grow increasingly erratic and he's sweaty and shaking so roughly that he has no idea if she comes, only that she moans like she does, gasping and digging her teeth into his collarbone. As his senses return, he strokes his hands over her skin, surprised to find it soft and supple, not all steel and hard angles.

Eventually, she gets up and goes back out to the living room and returns with his scotch and two glasses. Silently, she pours them each one more glass, effectively finishing off the bottle.

Raising his glass in a silent toast, he takes a long drink, then eyes the remainder before asking. "When do you go back to Israel?"

"Tomorrow," she answers, tossing back nearly half the glass in a single go. "In fact, I need to be at the airport in about four hours."

She makes no move to cover up, just lounges back against his pillows, the bed barely wide enough to hold the two of them, so he turns on his side to give her room. They both pretend to drift off to sleep then, but he's sure that she's still awake. Her breathing slows and he can feel her skin cooling down as well as the sheet and he wants to get up. Wants to throw her out, but it's all he can do just to stay awake because he doesn't trust her enough to sleep.

She stays for almost an hour then slides out of the bed quietly, both of them pretending not to know that the other is aware. It only takes her a few minutes to shuffle around his place, gather her things, setting his decanter in the sink along with their glasses.

On her way out, she re-enters his bedroom, pausing in the doorway for a moment. He holds his breath. In the movie moment, this is when she says _I think I love you_, or _Thank you_, or something that means something to him but the only thing she says comes out in what he can only guess is Hebrew and is too faint to be heard. Then she's gone.

Dragging himself out of bed, he goes to the door and finishes locking up the dead bolt, then scans the living room to be certain that every trace of her is gone before going back to bed.

When he finally falls asleep, he dreams of Kate, wearing a dark blue sapphire dress in a grand ballroom. But it ends just like it did on the rooftop with a bullet hole and dead bodies and there's still no music. Dreams, like movies, are crap, and when he wakes up to find his bed smells like Kate and sex, it feels like a cheap consolation prize, but he still refuses to change his sheets until the smell finally fades away.


End file.
